


non-asleep things

by Rhyolite



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Don’t copy to another site, Gen, Printer Enjolras, but still wanted to write canon era, ish, very vaguely canon era to cover up the fact that the author did not research much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 18:15:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18665749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhyolite/pseuds/Rhyolite
Summary: The city wasn’t asleep. It never was, really, at any hour of the night a carriage might rumble past, or a loud and happy group of people might pass under one’s window, talking loudly, or any of other (usually loud) non-asleep things.Enjolras was also not asleep.





	non-asleep things

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2019 Same Prompt Fic Challenge.

The city wasn’t asleep. It never was, really, at any hour of the night a carriage might rumble past, or a loud and happy group of people might pass under one’s window, talking loudly, or any of other (usually loud) non-asleep things.

Enjolras was _also_ not asleep. Combeferre had noticed when he’d emerged from his room to get another candle (the previous having been burned down by the previous four hours of reading-when-he-should-be-sleeping), and hadn’t heard the usual snores (always denied, of course) from the other room in the tiny apartment above the print shop which was going to be the home of the pamphlet that they’d started, well, yesterday.

The pamphlet wasn’t a new idea; they’d been talking about it for a while, but the print shop was.

Grantaire had been the first to stumble upon the building and its half-run-down printing press, and had told them about it during a meeting. Two weeks later the building was theirs, and rent due every first Saturday. Enjolras and Combeferre had moved into the apartment upstairs (it wasn’t really big enough to fit anyone else, and no one else really wanted to move into four tiny rooms on top of a print shop) had also been the ones to repair the press with the aid of numerous books and help from people Feuilly worked with or Enjolras knew.

Combeferre made his way down the narrow and ominously creaking staircase, one hand on the banister and the other cupped around his candle so that it wouldn’t be extinguished by a stray draft of air.

The printing press and boxes of type loomed, dimly illuminated by the moonlight from the window, like a giant metal creature, crouching, ready to breathe out pamphlets for them. A figure bent over a box of type, candle in one hand in the large engravings play with flowers carved into it - left of over from some other printing job, maybe, in the other. It was clear he was trying to move the plate with only one hand (the other being occupied with holding up the candle so that he could see) and having little luck.

Enjolras was so caught up in his task that he didn't notice Combeferre.

“Enjolras?”

Startled, the engraved plate clattered to the floor. Enjolras swore.

“What happened?” Combeferre asked. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras said. “It didn’t hit me.”

“Good,” Combeferre said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Enjolras said, leaning the plate safely against the wall. “I was just starting to set some of the type because I couldn’t sleep. You can go back to bed.”

Combeferre nodded. “Alright, but you should sleep as well.” It was a familiar argument - one of them would stay up too late reading or writing or doing something else, and the other would attempt to convince them to sleep.

It didn’t often work: mostly, the dialogue ended with “ _just a few more minutes”_ and either Combeferre or Enjolras waking up with their head resting on their desk, and (it it was Combeferre) the bridge of his spectacles digging uncomfortably into his nose and the sunlight streaming onto their face through their nonexistent curtains, because the existent curtains had caught fire in an incident involving Marius, Bossuet, and candles when they’d first moved in.

“Fine,” Enjolras said, with one last look at the printing press and boxes of tiny movable type. “I guess it can wait until the morning.”

Enjolras started towards the stairs.

Only started, because three steps into the journey, his left foot caught the edge of the plate he’d leaned against the wall, he hopped awkwardly to avoid it, and came crashing down to the floor, narrowly avoiding knocking over a container of ink on the way down.

Combeferre looked over. “Are you okay?”

Enjolras stood up. “Yeah, I’m fine, I -” He drew in a sharp breath through his teeth as he stood on his right foot. “Just twisted my ankle when I landed. I can walk, though. It’s not bad.”

It was: as soon as he lifted his uninjured foot off the ground and put all his weight on the foot that the plate had fallen on, he hissed in pain again.

Combeferre looked at him. “Are you sure that you’re fine?”

Enjolras sighed, “Not really. I think I twisted my ankle. I’m afraid you’ll have to carry me up the stairs at least.”

Combeferre nodded. “But you have to carry my candle - I don’t know the staircase well enough to walk up it in the dark while carrying someone.”

Enjolras nodded, and held out his hand. “Here.”

Combeferre gave him the candle, and then squatted down. “If I carry you on my back I’ll probably be able to climb the stairs the best, if you promise not to light my hair on fire from the candles.”

Enjolras nodded again. “I’ll try not to.”

Carrying Enjolras on his back was probably the best way - if there even _was_ a best way to carry one's friend up a narrow staircase in the middle of the night - but it was still awkward. They got there, but Combeferre was nearly ready to drop his friend by the time they’d - he’d - climbed the stairs.

He shoved open Enjolras’s door with one foot, and picked his way through the various papers and books and pens and  bottles of ink that’d migrated from Enjolras’s desk to his floor. Not that his own room was any better - it was worse - but at least there he knew the general shape of where things ended up.

“Thanks,” Enjolras said once he’d been set down er unceremoniously onto his bed.

Combeferre nodded, and then blinked, as the fact that it was the middle of the night and he hadn't slept at all hit him. “You’re welcome. I’m going to sleep, now.”

Enjolras’s foot was more swollen in the morning, but he insisted that he could walk on it, at least until they got to Joly’s.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, and then winced. “It’s not _badly_ sprained.”

Somehow they made it to the hospital where Joly worked. COmbeferre ignored the way that Enjolras hopped on his uninjured foot every once in a while, having decided that if Enjolras wanted help he’d ask.

“What happened?” Joly asked when he was presented with Enjolras’s foot.

Enjolras looked sheepish. “I was trying to work in the middle of the night and I tripped.”

Joly raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure you’re not turning into Bossuet?”

 _“Yes._ It was only one time.”

“And,” Combeferre added, “there wasn’t any fire involved.”

Joly raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t have a candle?”

“I did,” Enjolras said. “But it was pretty much just a puddle of wax and a wick.”

“Well,” Joly said, “You won’t die, unless you keep working in the middle of the night, in which case you'll get a rare and deadly disease that's like cholera but worse. I’ll come over after my shift to help with the pamphlets? I think that Musichetta and Bossuet might get there earlier, though.”

“Good,” Enjolras said, and tried to bend his ankle, now wrapped in a bandage and splint. “We need lots of people if I can’t work in the middle of the night anymore.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make me super happy! <3


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